


The Wreckage of Men

by Luuna (you_know_them_trees)



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Introspection, M/M, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-31 17:07:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12137148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/you_know_them_trees/pseuds/Luuna
Summary: “Not a girl, no,” Michael answers, too distracted to realize what he’s insinuating, until it’s already said. “Not much for dating,” he adds just after the soft sound of Sucre’s: “oh.”





	The Wreckage of Men

**Author's Note:**

> "Literature is strewn with the wreckage of men who have minded beyond reason the opinions of others."  
> \- Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own, Chapter Three

The tattoos.

Michael hides them under the long sleeves of his shirt. The pouring rain stops and the night turns bright and dry as the unforgiving Panama sun shows itself again from under the remnants of the dark clouds.

He keeps out of the yard. Out of the sun.

The prison building offers some shadow but it stays too warm. He sees the other inmates dressed in tank tops and wifebeaters and with bandanas to keep the sweat from dripping into their faces.

He longs for a cap to hide his face from the warmth.

And from the stares.

The tattoos are hidden. But this is the sort of place where stories like that would circulate, if nothing else than to give hope.

Do they stare because they have heard?

Sounds of shouting and cheering fill Sona’s empty halls. He follows them to the courtyard where the whole inmate population seem to have gathered. They stand pressed together, everyone trying to get close enough, hands waving and fists thrown into the air as the passion of the crowd builds up to a roaring crescendo.

Michael walks through the strings of sweaty bodies until he sees clearly what they are all watching.

A man being beaten to a pulp. His face ruined till its features are unrecognizable, till he no longer shouts in pain, or spasms against the hold of his tormentor.

The victor stands, holding up his blood covered hands to the sky in gesture of pride and brutality, and the voices of the screaming crowd are one.

Michael’s breaths come in gasps, but he realizes even in his fright the danger of appearing scared, and forces his mouth closed to stop the sounds from leaving.

A wimp, a coward, a fish. Not in Fernando’s fond tone. In the sleazy drag of T-Bag, the scornful sound of Abruzzi.

Someone catches his gaze and sneers at him.

He stumbles backwards, into the person behind him.

“Hey!”

A familiar voice. He spins around. A familiar face.

Steely eyes, a long sloping nose, thin lips.

“Alex.”

Mahone reaches for him. “We should work together. Two _gringos_ in Sona, it would be safer, Michael.”

His hand almost touches Michael’s – to take his, pull him with him, who knows – and his gaze on Mahone’s face is earnest, hopeful somehow, before Michael steps away.

“You killed my father, Alex.”

In prison, old grievances can remain important or be forgotten. There is no middle ground in choosing your enemies and your friends and if there is anything Michael cannot do; it is to let go of the knife sharp pain in his ribcage. The deep press stemming from the sorrow of losing a family member he had badly wanted to know.

“I did what I had to do. They threatened my family!” Mahone snaps.

Michael supposes he is telling the truth. Though the truth doesn’t matter as much as the action does and the truth of coercion, of pain and of the Company doesn’t change what has been done.

This, Michael knows all too well.

Every crime committed by the Fox River escapees is on his head. No matter the circumstances.

 

(“Usually, people start with something smaller.”

The tattoo artist smiles. She’s curious, fishing for something.

“Name of their loved ones. A tramp stamp. Not this.”)

 

“You plan on escaping, superstar?” Leechero growls.

They still know. Trying to hide was an unneeded precaution; a wish for peace that will not be fulfilled.

“No,” Michael says and wishes that it will be enough, even though he knows it won’t be.

There is a sinister note to Leechero’s smile and Michael has been hated by enough criminals to know what it looks like. The difference this time is that he hasn’t even had the time to do something yet.

Mahone sends him a pointed look. That Michael already has enemies on his first day in Sona doesn’t seem to deter him.

 

(“Hang a sheet, Fernando. I’ll be back soon.”

Sucre grumbles; it’s something about rumors and catcalling but Michael is already through the hole in the wall, not listening (or trying not to listen, not to take it to heart).

He doesn’t know what to tell him. Those that assume would be right in his case.)

 

When midday comes, and Michael is sitting on the floor in a far off cell – sweat dripping down the side of his face – he gives up on hiding the tattoos and tugs off his shirt.

From the doorway, someone whistles appreciatively.

He looks up and meets T-Bag’s hooded gaze with a glare.

“Showing off all that for me, pretty?”

“What do you want?”

T-Bag clucks his tongue. “Don’t play coy with me now.”

“ _Scofield, tienes una visitante. Scofield, you have a visitor_.”

Saved by the bell. Michael breathes a sigh of relief and gets up from the floor, pulling the sweaty shirt over his head again. It immediately sticks to his bag again and he wrinkles his nose at the feeling.

“Everyone wants you, huh, pretty,” T-Bag leers at him, before moving away to let him pass.

 

The outside world is bright and red and dry. No man’s land stretches in every direction until it reaches the guard towers and the dirt road leading away from here.

Just outside the fence, Lincoln stands, waiting for him. He smiles as Michael gets closer and it feels hopeful; a welcome sight after a night surrounded by Sona’s inmates.

“I’m getting you transferred. I’ve talked to people at the embassy who can get it done.”

“But the charges?”

“Bill Kim was self-defense. They will drop the charges and have you on a plane back to the States tomorrow.”

Michael nods. One day and night more in Sona. It should be possible.

“What’s with the frown?”

“I’ve… made some enemies.”

“How long have you been there?! Ten hours?”

“T-Bag’s here, too.”

“Jesus, Michael,” Linc sighs, scratching at the back of his head.

“There is no way you can get me out quicker?”

“Well, I can try, man, but the charges have to be dropped first.”

“Yeah… yeah. Of course. Don’t worry about me. It’ll be alright.”

 

(“Talk to me, please, Michael,” Dr Tancredi says, her brows furrowed with concern too sincere for a place like this.

He wants to tell her but he can’t afford to.)

 

There are drugs in his bed. As if the Sona situation couldn’t get any worse; someone is already trying to get rid of him. Michael wants to laugh at the absurdity. Twelve hours. It’s been roughly twelve hours since he got here and now he has fifteen minutes till he has to be out in the courtyard and fight a man to the death.

He sinks down on the bunk, resting his head in his hands as he tries to get his mind around killing someone.

There are murders and deaths that are on his hands because of the people he has helped and the people he has let down but he’s never actually killed someone. He’s not a murderer. Not directly.

“Go for his knee.”

Michael raises an eyebrow. “You think I should fight dirty, Alex?”

Mahone shrugs, wandering inside Michael’s cell as though he’s got a right to be there. “You’re a tawny guy, ‘specially compared to him. Get him out of commission.”

“I’m not a killer.”

“How good for you.”

Michael doesn’t know whether to glare at him for the scornful tone or keep venting his fears. “I- I can’t do it.”

“Leechero will let him kill you.”

“You almost seem like you care.”

“Go for the knee, Michael.”

 

(“You’ve been out in the sun too long, boy. You should write mystery novels.”

Mahone knows what he’s hinting at. No matter how hard he tries to deflect, they’re both on the same page. But he’s also the one who’s hunted them – who killed those he could get his hands on – and Michael can’t help but dig a little deeper still.

“If I buried something in my backyard, I’d think about it all the time.”)

 

The crowd is already cheering and hollering by the time Michael gets into the ring. No one backs him; he can see it in their faces, in the way they smile gleefully at him as he faces his opponent. He’s the new guy, the one who already has enemies. The people surrounding him, keeping him in the ring, are here to watch him die.

Except for Mahone.

Michael meets his gaze among the strings of people and Mahone sends him one of those pointed looks again.

The knee, yeah, got it.

“I’m not gonna fight,” he shouts at Leechero, who’s watching them from above, surrounded by his lackeys.

His opponent frowns at him, looks at Leechero, smiles uncertainly and then-

Michael attacks.

One swift kick at the knee, catching him unawares and he goes down.

Done.

Michael turns around, leaves his back open for his opponent – not smart, he knows, but he can’t kill him, won’t kill him and so he has to get out – but the crowd push him back into the ring.

His opponent comes at him. He takes a hit to the face; it’ll bruise later, and he ducks from the next fist sailing past him. Throws a punch himself. Another one. And the guy is down again.

Michael pushes against the crowd, he glares, but they aren’t intimidated; they are excited and frustrated and passionate about seeing someone die. They won’t let him out.

Leechero shouts something from his balcony and the crowd responds with cheers. Their leader won’t take their amusement away from them.

Michael swallows. Could he kill someone to live another day? He’s not worth it. If there is someone up there keeping score, then they know he’s hurt more people than he’s saved and why would he deserve to live if he killed another human being for sport.

Let them beat him to a bloody pulp while he does nothing to stop it.

He’ll die without blood on his own hands and that should mean something.

The crescendo of the crowd rises to a cacophony of screams and shouts and cheers for his death, while he awaits it with a somewhat calm mind.

Mahone is suddenly beside him, gripping his opponent, snapping his neck, killing someone-

Just like that.

Michael gasps; and it’s audible in the silence that stops everything – every movement, every cheer – just for a moment.

“The rules,” Mahone is saying, while Michael stares at him. “Without them we’re savages.”

And is it not savage, to kill someone like that?

Or was it honorable since he saved Michael’s life?

A shank lies in the dirt beside the body, making it obvious – if it hadn’t been before – that Michael was not supposed to walk away from here alive. It was a set up; he knew it was a set up – from the drugs to the shank – but now there’s no denying it.

Leechero hates him – fears him – and the dead man on the ground paid with his life. Maybe not a tragedy; since his would-be-killer must have been in on the joke, but an unnecessary death nonetheless.

Where was the honor in killing a man?

Mahone grips his shoulder – and Michael shudders – pulling him with him, out of the courtyard, away from Leechero’s glare and back to his cell.

“You told me to go for his knee,” Michael tries, slumping against the wall and dragging a hand over his face.

Mahone scoffs. “That’s the first step, yeah.”

“I’m not a killer.”

“You’re a broken record, Michael.”

He’s right, isn’t he? A broken record. A thing that repeats itself; the unlucky sequence of fleeing and being hunted, escaping alive, but barely and not always by his own actions.

“Why?”

“‘I can’t do it, Alex. I’m not a killer.’ Well, you didn’t have to, because I took care of it for you.”

“It was that easy for you, huh.”

Mahone stalks forward, close, too close; their bodies almost touch. He’s trying to be intimidating and Michael could hold his own against him – should do it too – but Mahone just killed a man; killed a man for him, and Michael wants his head to clear for one fucking minute.

“You do seem to care,” he says. More confused than mockingly, but it’s the best he can do right now.

Mahone smells like sweat and dirt; like a person, a real person in front of him; having saved him for god knows what reason, and now he’s here in Michael’s space, making his head spin.

Just a few seconds to breathe again.

“Good that one of us could do it,” Mahone sneers, stepping away and leaving the cell before Michael even has a chance to hear his words.

There is a cold, empty space left where he’d stood and Michael curses himself for noticing.

Just the night.

Just the night and he’s out of here.

 

 _(_ “What did you want?”

“I’m fine with being on guard here. I just thought- there might be something more that I could do. To help.”

“Fernando-“

“I want to get quickly, you know? Maricruz is waiting for me now, but she won’t be much longer.”

Michael nods. He understands, he does; but there’s not much he can do from here. Even though he’d give Sucre the world if he could.)

 

Come morning, Michael goes out of the prison, up to the fence, looks Linc in the eye and knows there is no way he’s getting out of there.

“They have LJ and Sara.”

“The company.”

“You have to break someone out.”

He would laugh. Fucking broken record alright. He would laugh but LJ and Sara are in danger and he has to solve it; he has to save them.

“Who is it? Who am I looking for?”

“Some guy named Whistler.”

 

Could it ever be done? He finds the man, he saves the man.

He makes a plan.

What did you want? He could ask himself, wonder if there was a way it all could have turned out differently. But he had never known anything else.

There isn’t really anyone to help him here. Not like before.

No one he would trust to watch his back while he does his best to help them.

He’s got himself backed into a corner, one way out; one way to save them both; LJ and Sara. They mean something, right? He cares for them; it means something. He can’t let them down; will save them both if it’s the last the thing he’ll do.

Sometimes-

 

There is a knife in Mahone’s hand.

A knife that’s dangerously close to his face.

Michael won’t stand a chance if he decides to hurt him. He almost smiles at the realization. There’s nothing he can do here; he’s hopeless, powerless, pressed into the wall, forced to bring Mahone with him when they go.

Mahone towers over him, flexing the arms that box him in; the taut lines of muscle just as threatening as the weapon.

Michael swallows. “Alex-“

“Don’t!” Mahone presses closer, until his breaths puff against Michael’s neck. “Try to leave me behind again and I’ll slit your throat.”

“Okay, okay, Alex.”

His gaze is erratic, moving over Michael’s face and body as though trying and failing to find a fixed point. He must have taken something.

“Remember, Michael. Don’t try to trick me.”

Mahone pulls away and Michael remains slumped against the wall; his breaths coming fast as he tries to get enough air. This should be a problem.

And he should think of it as such.

 

If he could get him on his feet. If he could get him to trust him-

 

“3:13,” Whistler says, smiling grimly. “That’s our pass.”

Michael nods. One guard down. They’ve both come to the same conclusion. He glances towards the window, catches Mahone still watching something intently. In his hand, he’s clutching a crumpled paper cup, almost pressing it to his lips.

“Where did you get that?”

“The guard.”

Michael steps closer to him. Their arms press together as Michael tries to look at what he’s seeing. Outside, the red dirt shines in the afternoon glare of the sun. A desolate field; no man’s land. But something between the prison and the guard towers stands out.

Another paper cup.

“He drinks two of those every day. Get to the cup and you get to the man.”

Mahone looks at him, finally, and Michael smiles.

“Great thinking, Alex.”

“It’s insulting how surprised you seem to be.”

“Well, your track record isn’t-“

“I followed you the whole way here, didn’t I?”

“But not by your own volition.”

Michael pulls his shirt from his body, trying to fan some air onto his skin. Maybe he should have gotten used to it by now, but the heat’s still stifling.

Mahone’s watching his hand, following the action. When Michael drops his hand, their gazes lock again and on the other side of the room, Whistler coughs.

 

They get to the man. They get to the man but Sara’s dead.

 

Mahone finds him. Says he’s sorry.

 

The funny thing about being sorry is that it means nothing. It can’t change a thing, can’t change the past, won’t lead to anything.

Michael is to blame; he has to be sorry. If it weren’t for him, Sara would still be at her old job at Fox Rivers, she would be alive. She would be alive and well and he wouldn’t have to live with the knowledge that he’d caused this; that he brought more pain than he could balance up. That if someone watches from upstairs, he isn’t worth a thing.

 

Linc begs him to keep trying to break out, for LJ.

 

Sometimes, he wishes it will be the last thing he’ll do.

 

3:13. Michael stares at the guard, wills him to look away.

Beside him, Whistler’s almost vibrating; hands fidgeting, voice harsh and demanding. “What are we supposed to do now, huh?”

They both want out, badly. But Michael’s got his gaze fixed on their target, waiting for the right time, while Whistler can’t seem to calm the fuck down.

“I’ll go first. We can’t afford to let them kill you,” he says and Whistler actually stops moving for once.

Michael smiles at him and climbs out the window.

 

(The door is open.

She left the door open for them.

Michael is relieved, he is; this is what needed to happen to save Linc, to help him, to keep him alive; except there’s a part of him that sees the spiral leading downwards and he wishes so, so much that he’d never had to ask this of her.

She never would have done any of this if it hadn’t been for him.

He never told her that he couldn’t feel the same for her.)

 

Later, when he’s hanging onto Whistler’s legs, forcing the man to stay in prison with him, he realizes that maybe they don’t want out just as badly. He’s been deluding himself in thinking that they are on the same side in this and while he never really trusted Whistler, he hadn’t thought of this.

Michael needs Whistler alive and out – he’d made a plan, tried to save him, made another one, bringing him along again – but it turns out, that the other way around was never an option.

 

They put him in a box, wrapped in plastic; waiting to be ‘punished by the Panama sun’.

Stifling heat.

Light.

His head pounds, a steady beat, but not grounding him, distracting him.

He can’t think, can’t see any way out.

If he stays silent, he dies.

If he talks, LJ might die.

 

(Abruzzi smiles as his goons hold him down. “Last chance to speak, fish.”

By their smirks, it’s obvious that they all know – they hear his terrified gasps for breath, see his widened gaze – and they think that they will break him.

But Linc’s life hangs on this and Michael’s doesn’t.

They can threaten him, cut off his toes and leave him there, but no matter how loud he screams out in pain, he won’t tell them what they want to know.)

 

Out in the heat of no man’s land, Sucre comes to see him.

“Leave,” Michael says as soon as he’s close enough. “Forget me, forget this and walk away.”

“You saved my life, Michael. After everything you’ve done, I can’t.”

Michael drinks the water he’s offered. He gulps it down in one go; it’s stale and too warm but tastes better than anything he’s ever drank before.

Sucre never liked the rumors, never wanted to be associated with that kind of affection.

“I loved you,” Michael tells him, staring into his eyes until he turns away. “Leave, Fernando.”

 

(They bring him to the infirmary immediately. Some of the guards are horrified, others couldn’t care less.

Blood pours out of the wound; he knows it, feels it, but can’t look. His toes are missing, they are gone and he doesn’t want to look but he knows it, he felt it, he-

“Michael, who did this? Talk to me!”

He whimpers as someone touches it. It’s aggravated, don’t touch, leave it alone; how could it hurt more?

He’s sounding panicked again – he notices distantly – maybe someone should try to calm him down before they start demanding that he talks. He’s gasping, he can’t breathe-)

 

“I saw you there. Michael, I’m sorry.”

He’s barely gotten back inside Sona and Mahone is already cornering him. “What did you want?” he asks; aware that he’s sounding irritable, rude, but his head is still pounding and he doesn’t have the energy to be anything but.

“They tortured you.”

Michael shrugs. He heard Gretchen’s muffled screams while he sat outside with Whistler and he’s pretty sure he got away lightly in this case.

“You should rest,” Mahone mumbles, lifting a hand to his forehead.

Michael stares at him, breathing slowly; the back of Mahone’s hand cool against his skin. “Why do you care?”

He’s standing too close. They are barely hidden – tucked away in an alcove, yes, but anyone could walk around the corner – and if they look, the rumors will start.

Maybe he should rest before going down to the tunnel and having to talk to the others – he needs to stay on his toes around them, being out of it like this could be dangerous.

He probably shouldn’t be around Mahone either.

“You’re my get-out-of-jail-free-card, remember,” Mahone says and drops his hand from Michael’s face.

He really shouldn’t be around Mahone either.

 

(“You got a girl out there waiting for you, Michael?”

Sucre’s hunched over his letter to Maricruz; lovesick words and assurances turning into a poem in his hands.

If Michael had him, he wouldn’t need words like those; the smile on Sucre’s face when they’re talking; easy, fond and warm, would be so much more than enough.

“Not a girl, no,” Michael answers, too distracted to realize what he’s insinuating, until it’s already said. “Not much for dating,” he adds just after the soft sound of Sucre’s: “oh.”)

 

Sand falls from the ceiling, not enough for it to be dangerous, but enough to remind them that it could be.

“Something as small as that will keep the tunnel from collapsing on us?” Whistler asks, scowling.

Michael raises an eyebrow. Had he been ten years younger – and someone cruder – he would have said something about how size doesn’t matter, but since he’s not, he only nods.

“You’re giving me the silent treatment now, is that it?”

Mahone laughs. “That’s his standard mode. Don’t take it personally.”

“The company wanted me to kill you, Scofield, and jump on that helicopter. If I didn’t, they would come for my family.”

That’s the crux of it all the time, isn’t it? The company wants something, they threaten to hurt someone important and all of them dance to their tune, again and again.

“So not a fisherman then.”

“They forced my hand just as much as yours.”

Maybe he actually believes it, maybe he thinks they are the same here; just as Michael did not so long ago. Difference is, Michael gets Whistler out and they both are better for it. Whistler gets himself out and those Michael care about are dead.

“Quit embarrassing yourself,” Mahone sighs.

“What?”

“We’re not two chicks you’re trying to pick up at a bar.”

Whistler sputters. “I’m trying to defend myself. I don’t want _him_ to leave me behind.”

“No one is leaving anyone,” Mahone decides, his voice coming from just behind Michael. “If he could have left anyone, it would have been me.”

Michael would protest – say that he wouldn’t leave either of them and especially not Mahone – but since he’s already tried to, it feels too much like lying.

 

(“Well, then I’m not most people.”

She chuckles. “That you are not.”

The plan is written into his skin and he can’t back down now.)

 

He finds Mahone in a cell above ground. It’s cramped; more so than the ones Michael’s occupied here, and he doesn’t seem to have any belongings.

Mahone lifts his head from the pillow. In the dim morning light, the dark circles under his eyes stand out; hollowing his face, making it seem gaunt and thin. He sits up, tugs on a shirt but Michael catches a glimpse of his stomach.

A band of dark bruises.

Michael meets his gaze as Mahone smirks.

“See something you like?”

“Who?”

“I’ve been through withdrawal again. Could have been anyone.”

His tone is light as though the assault doesn’t matter, as if he’s not worried that someone beat him up while he was out of it.

Michael goes a few steps more into the room, and Mahone raises an eyebrow.

“Worried about me, Michael?”

“You disappeared for a while.”

“Yeah.”

“I thought I was your get-out-of-jail-free-card.”

“Lang had an offer for me.”

“And?”

Mahone leans back on the bunk, patting the bedding beside him. “It didn’t work out.”

“So you’re staying, coming with us?”

“Don’t say that you missed me, Michael. I’m touched,” his tone is mocking – of course it is, the words are too – but there is a sparkle in his eyes; something warm.

“I could use someone to watch my back,” Michael says, holding his breath as he gets onto the bunk beside Mahone, sitting back on his knees. He keeps waiting for an angry rebuttal – a slur thrown at him, something to warn him off – but Mahone only watches.

Michael’s towering over him for once; Mahone’s face turned up towards him, legs stretched out, slightly spread. Not that he seems intimidated by the change; on the contrary, he’s smirking again.

“I think I’d like to see that famous tattoo.”


End file.
